


His Sorrowful Passion

by angesradieux



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Crucifixion, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, I'm Going to Hell, Non-Graphic Violence, Religious Conflict, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27918820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angesradieux/pseuds/angesradieux
Summary: Jesus Christ spoke seven times upon the cross. During his own crucifixion, Athelstan recalls each statement, but as much as he tries to focus his mind on Christ, he finds his thoughts are all of Ragnar.
Comments: 15
Kudos: 12





	His Sorrowful Passion

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes: Is this blasphemous? Feels like it. Am I going to hell for writing this? Probably! Do I regret it? Not one little bit! I was itching to write a crucifixion fic from the moment I watched the scene, but I hadn't figured out exactly how I wanted to approach it. This is what I finally settled on. A minor historical nitpick--I know that typically with crucifixion the nails would have gone through the wrists. But in the show they drive the nail through Athelstan's palms, so I decided to stick with that here. Anyway, hope you enjoy the fic. Feedback is always very much appreciated!
> 
> Crossposted on FF
> 
> ~Anges

_Father, forgive them_

At Lindisfarne, Athelstan hadn’t understood it. At least, not truly. He knew the scripture, and that it was yet another manifestation of the perfect love of Christ, that he could forsake himself and pray for his captors even in the midst of his suffering. It made perfect sense, except for when it didn’t. The monk forgave quickly and readily, not holding much against his brothers. But, whatever petty grievances he may have had paled in comparison to the agony of the Cross. The closest he’d experienced was the arrival of the Northmen, who’d slaughtered his brothers, desecrated his church, and taken him across the sea as a slave.

Then, forgiveness had been neither quick nor easy. He loved Christ, but he had been unable to follow His divine example and cast aside his own suffering so readily. And even once he’d forgiven, it had been longer still before he’d found it in his heart to accept and pray for his captors.

Perhaps the long months of meditation, prayer, and reflection it had taken to arrive there had done his soul good, because it comes easier now.

The tails of the lash bite into his flesh, pulling a pained gasp from his lips. The blood that trickles down his back, however, makes him think not of himself but rather the blood that will be shed if word of his fate reaches Ragnar. He will tear across Wessex, leaving behind nothing but scorched earth and ghosts in his quest for vengeance.

He prays for their deliverance. Some part of him knows the prayer isn’t for them at all, but rather for Ragnar. True peace does not come in anger and violence, but rather in grace and mercy. It’s for the sake of the heart he knows holds him so dear that he hopes Ragnar will find it in him to stay his blade.

_You will be with me in Paradise_

Will he? At one time, Athelstan had been so sure. He’d lived his life according to God’s Law, serving and glorifying Him with every action, word, and thought. The cloistered life he once lived had left room for little outside devotion and prayer. But now he has sinned. He had given Ragnar the information he’d needed to unleash his men on England, to raid and kill and destroy. He’s participated in blasphemous rituals for the Pagan gods. His own axe has been christened with the blood of Christian men.

The nail pierces his right palm, and he fears the suffering he knows in this moment is just a precursor to the eternal torment of Hell.

Except now he knows Odin as well as Christ. If the latter will deny him, perhaps the former will send one of his Valkyries to call Athelstan to him instead, where he will see Leif and Gyda, and the other unlikely friends he’d found among the Northmen, and where he may one day also welcome Ragnar home. Athelstan has always loved Christ, but he can no longer deny that Odin also has hold of his heart. He doesn’t know which, if either, will lay claim to his soul. Once a man of steadfast faith, he now finds himself adrift.

He knows nothing. He can only pray and hope that one of his gods will hear.

Athelstan screams, crying out to whoever might listen.

_Woman, behold thy son_

Athelstan has not thought of his mother in many years. Perhaps once upon a time, he’d longed for her, when he’d first been given to the church, but the memory faded quickly. He’d come to accept his brothers and God as the only family he needed. He doesn’t think of her now, either. Instead, he thinks again of Ragnar.

Ragnar is loved by many of his men, but they won’t understand his grief. To many, as much as he tried to assimilate, Athelstan remained a foreigner. They tolerated him well enough and some may have even counted him among their friends. None had come to love him as Ragnar did.

Except, perhaps, Lagertha.

She and Ragnar have gone their separate ways. He prays, however, that they will one day find each other again. Even if the hurts of the past cannot be forgotten, perhaps Ragnar may still find comfort in the mother of his eldest son. Athelstan had been of the mind that allowing Aslaug to drive a wedge between them may have been among Ragnar’s greatest failings. If his death brings them together again in any way, even if it is not as man and wife, perhaps then it will not be wholly in vain.

They pin his left hand to the cross. Each strike of the mallet brings with it fresh shocks of agony.

His body jerks, convulsing in pain, but the ropes that bind him and the hands upon him hold him fast against his cross.

_My God, why have you abandoned me_

This he speaks aloud, though it comes as a pained rasp. He can no longer scream as the executioner positions the final nail at his feet and sets his mallet to work. There is no answer, save the scoffing of the crowd around him.

He doesn’t need one.

Athelstan is an apostate. He has participated in the sacking of a church and killed his countrymen, who sought only to defend their home. He may be beyond even the endless grace and forgiveness of Christ, and even if he isn’t, the penance required to atone for such things would be most heavy. Perhaps this will suffice. He doubts it.

He knows why the Christian God is silent, but where is Odin?

He is no longer the cowering monk, scorned by the gods as a poor and unwanted sacrifice, not worthy even to die in their name, let alone to live in their care. He has grown since then—learned their ways and taken up axe and shield as a Viking. He has even earned an arm ring to mark him among Ragnar’s men. He has acknowledged their pantheon and welcomed them into his spirit, in violation of every vow he had taken and everything he had once known to be true. Why, then, do they still turn away?

Odin does not come to deliver him, and neither does Eir come to ease the pain of his passing. It becomes harder to hope that he will find a place in the afterlife, either in Heaven or Valhalla. Perhaps no god will lay claim to him, and he will find only emptiness. Will Satan want him, or is he unworthy even of Hell?

It’s a wicked and blasphemous thought, but Athelstan wishes that Ragnar were a god, that he might pray to him. Ragnar is the only one who would not forsake him. He may have once, many years ago, but Athelstan knows he would never do so again.

Ragnar above all others has won his faith.

_I thirst_

It had seemed out of place to Athelstan. He’d wondered how, amidst the pain, Christ had been able to spare a thought for thirst. He hadn’t questioned it aloud—he knew such a thing would not be well received at Lindisfarne—but no matter how he thought on it, he never reached an understanding.

Now, he has.

Blood trails down his face and stings his eyes as the crown of thorns is forced upon his head. His instinct is to wipe it away and the mere twitch of his pierced hands as it tries to move drives him to rasp out a feeble cry. There is no longer a bone in his body that doesn’t hurt. Yet, his screams have left his throat raw, and the other wounds cannot entirely distract from it. Had he anything left to give, he would have surrendered it all for a sip of water.

It calls to mind Ragnar’s eyes.

Bright and clear, and as blue as the most pristine lake. It hurts to know he will never look upon those eyes again.

A drink of water may have eased his physical suffering, but how much more might one, final glance of those eyes have soothed him? Where one would relieve his parched throat, the other promised a healing balm for the soul to ease him more gently into death. And yet even as he craves it with all of his being, he gives thanks that the Viking’s tender gaze is far away.

It would destroy Ragnar to see him this way. It pains Athelstan, but he knows it is a mercy that the Viking’s final memory of him will be of the confident man watching his ship leave, prepared to serve him and protect his interests abroad until they would meet again. It is better this way, for both of their sakes.

_It is finished_

The executioner’s work is done. The cross is hoisted up and all that remains is to watch. But death will not come easily and Athelstan realizes his suffering has just begun.

All the strain his muscles came to know over years of laboring on the farm and learning to fight is nothing compared to this. Every sinew is taut with pain as he struggles in vain against the cruelty of the cross. The joints of his arms and shoulders are stretched and he can find no relief. Bent legs offer little support. It doesn’t matter. He finds whatever he was able to muster is gone within minutes as the muscles of his thighs give out.

He wants to scream but can manage little more than harsh, ragged gasps. He is already exhausted, and he has no breath for anything more.

Athelstan once thought the Vikings barbaric. The practice of human sacrifice revolted him right down to his very core. His God was one of love and compassion, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that couldn’t fathom worshipping a god who would demand so vile an act in exchange for their favor. He’d thought himself and his brothers better. But this suffering is wrought by his countrymen, in the name of his Christ.

Are they any better, truly?

At least the Vikings killed their sacrifices quickly and with as little pain as possible.

Still, he finds he cannot let go of his love for Christ. The love he’d once had for all his brothers and sisters in Christ, however? That, he is sure, has died upon the cross.

_Into your hands I commend my spirit_

What Athelstan had once understood as peace and calm acceptance is a desperate and painful prayer. He has no concept of how long he has been hanging, but he knows he can stand no more. His chest aches and his lungs burn as he struggles to breathe. He pleads for someone to take him. Anyone. He no longer cares whether it is Christ or Odin or even Satan. He just wants to die.

What Christians are these, that they can look on his suffering with neither pity nor remorse? Someone must have some weapon that could end his pain but none move to help. They are content to leave him for however long it takes for the cross to do its work.

He tries to muster anger, but he has not the strength for it. Nor can he rage or howl or scream his agony, or even utter aloud his pleas for death. He can only hang, near senseless from pain.

In the end, it is not a god but a man who comes for him.

Athelstan is too fully consumed by his misery to see the face of his savior, or even to hear the king’s order that his life be spared. He feels himself falling and thinks that this must finally be the end. He is ready to surrender himself to the mercy of whatever god sees fit to claim him, because surely no god could possibly be as cruel as the people of earth. He is not ready for the shocks sent through his broken and battered body as the cross hits the ground. Dizziness and nausea overwhelm his senses as his lungs draw in hungry and desperate gulps of air. The hands that work the nails out of his palms and feet are rough, taking little care to ease the pain as rough metal tears already abused flesh and jolts shattered bone.

He doesn’t resist. He doesn’t scream. He can find the strength for just a single word before merciful blackness finally claims him.

“ _Ragnar_.”


End file.
